


e

by writingpracticeandshit (thegodfather)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Harmful Coping Mechanisms, OCs - Freeform, Vent?, dont read it at all, dont read that if you feel uncomfortable, first one mentions suicide for some reason, guess who sucks at pacing, i absolutely suck at it, idk - Freeform, if you know how to pace please help me, oh well, practice, shit writing, theres literally no meaning to that, why do i keep mentioning coyotes and khakis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-06 02:13:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15184511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegodfather/pseuds/writingpracticeandshit
Summary: Just practice. I'm not the best at writing but I want to learn. Any criticism is welcome! I have no fucking clue what I'm doing and I'd appreciate the help!





	e

**Author's Note:**

> This is vent AND writing practice.

Picture it, a particular man told to no one but himself.  
Upon the tile of a bathroom laid his discolored and bloated body while hungry coyotes snarled at him with their frothy fuckin' drool. Not far from the scene, people are celebrating in unison at the death of a menace. It's a good day in Lexington, South Carolina. Worst of all, he wore his fancy khakis for this occasion. He's fucking dying- well, sweating, in what he could call the most expensive thing he owned.   
Mitchell knew he was exaggerating. He wasn't actually getting mauled by coyotes, but he was sure his head was good as gone. Depressed with this revelation, he lounged in his car and stared out beyond. A traffic overflow on a shitty Monday during a goddamn drought in South Carolina while cruising in expensive ass khakis.  
If his employers hadn't been a nuisance in his never-ending torment, he wouldn't have been here. Sure, purposely ditching work is a bad work ethic, but is that a reason to bitch, he thought to himself. "No, it ain't."  
(Read: He knew, it really was.)

 

'It's Alex. Boss is pissed and your job's on the line, Kahue. You are thirty minutes LATE. Get the fuck in here before Carl slits your throat.' Fucking god...  
Checking his phone only made the hatred for his actions worse. Cool and good. 

'I'm coming. Traffic.`I'm not gonna make it.

`Traffic, my ass. Get in here before you risk yourself. This is for your own good.` Is this my fault? Is it my fault this time? 

"Traffic, my ass..." he mocked in a pitched voice. Pent up and tired, the man resorted to slamming his hands into the steering wheel.

"FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME."  
Hit after hit, Mitchell's emotions seethed. If anything, it was making his hands bruise even worse than Saturday's incident.   
The bellwether of all his episodes, his gut twisted unbearably. He couldn't take this anymore. "Fuck me... fuck me..." he slumped onto the wheel, careless that his car let out a strangled honk. "Absolute fucking sissy."  
Mitchell couldn't cry. Not here, not now. At home, in his bed, maybe. Maybe he could cry and let it all out. Maybe use the gun his father gave him for his sixteenth birthday and do it. He'd been planning for the perfect moment. Place the gun on the roof of his mouth, fifteen degrees upward. Pull the trigger and hope to god it wipes out his brain stem. They'd find his useless body spread out on the floor of his bathroom, laughing at how fucking pathetic it looks. Like coyotes, they're snarling and drooling on his bloody khakis.   
"It's a shame. Good looking khakis."  
"Who cares? Dickhead deserved to die anyways," the other policeman kicks his corpse to its side. Foam slides down from his cheek and drips onto the tile."The fucking waste of space is dead."

The fucking waste of space isn't dead. Yet.  
Twenty-seven year old African-American man shoots his fucking brains out over lost job. Mitchell can almost see it now. He was going to kill himself after twenty-seven straight years of being reckless.

Mitchell's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a familiar sight next to him in traffic.   
A worn, almost rusty car pulled to his side. Both windows to the green vehicle were put away and revealed a rather lanky, sweaty ginger trying his best to fight off the oppressive heat. "Shit..." The man swiped his hand against the outside frame of his car and immediately flinched away. 

Amused by the anxious man, he shrugged off his previous agenda and leaned his arm on the window. "Hey, Bigfoot! Heat fucking with you?" His voice was still hoarse from yelling, but he tried his best to smother it.   
"Haha, yeah. I guess so. Hi, Mitchell." The man offered a sheepish smile and waved in his direction. Even from here, Mitchell could see literal pools of sweat under his pits. 

"It's Officer Kahue to you, youngling," Mitchell winked. He was a police receptionist on the verge of getting fired for playing hooky far too often, for fucks sake. Why he felt the need to lie, Mitchell wasn't sure. Confidently, he continued his rambling. "You should know this, Craig. Told you I was getting my dream job."  
Craig wheezed and shook his head. "I-I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," he frantically gesticulated.   
Maybe a year or two-"  
"No." Mitchell interjected. It's been a while, surely. He didn't think Craig would defend himself. "You're older than me but I mean life-wise...." Don't say it. Don't you fucking say it. Mitchell became aware that he did not know how to shut the fuck up.   
"I mean... I have- I have my shit," he paused and stared at the condition of Craig's trashcan of a car, "together." Craig must've noticed his strange stare because his unsure smile turned into pursed lips. 

His breath hitched. He felt... like an asshole? He took no second thought to it and clicked his tongue. "But anyway, just wanted to say hi. Been a while since college." Mitchell blinked awkwardly. All of his built-up "ensuring" melted into intestine-churning guilt. "Nice talk?"  
Craig nodded his head quickly, visibly giving Mitchell annoyed side glances. "You know what... whatever."  
"I can see you haven't changed at all... Sure, good talk, I guess," Craig mumbled. His voice crack was as awful as his college days, but it didn't change the tone of his voice. He was annoyed by his presence, Mitchell realized. He felt abandoned when Craig rolled up his windows with what Mitchell thought was an attempt at blocking him out. The tint did him a disfavor, but he could faintly see Craig glance in his direction one last time before hitting the pedal. He actually went ahead... what? Mitchell looked back to the road and realized in a frenzy that traffic was gone. Previously unknown beeps came into notice behind him, all of it screaming for him to hit the gas already. "Shut the fuck up! I'm goin', I'm goin'!" With the desperation of a starved coyote, he hit the gas pedal and held onto hope by a string. 

 

 

Turns out he was two hours late to the meeting.


End file.
